But wait until he’s four (thoughts on three years).

This is a little thing I love about my wife: she says stuff like…

…I just love the ages of two, three, four…they are so fun.

If you’re going to make reductive inferences about her not liking other ages, then please leave now. Or maybe just don’t be like that. I simply like the fact that she embraces the joys of those ages. That attitude is infectious, and helps me to remember to go into each day and interaction with our three year old with the expectation of great moments and memories ahead. Usually there are. Like these.

Gotta boogie (part 1).

“That’s gross,” I said. “Get your finger out of your nose.”

”It’s okay,” he said, continuing to mine with a stubby forefinger. “I’m just getting a boogie out.”

”I know.” I said. “It’s gross. Go wipe it on some tissue or something in the bathroom. And then wash your hands.”

”Okay,” he said, trotting off in the direction of the kitchen…

…and returning thirty seconds later, his hands dripping.

“What did you do?” I asked.

”I got the boogie out,” he huffed dramatically. “I threw it in the sink, and it flew way over my head, and then it landed in the sink and it washed down the sink.”

“Okay,” I said. “So you basically did exactly what I said, which was to go to the bathroom, wipe it on some tissue, and wash your hands?”

”Uh huh,” he nodded, shaking his head and and working on the remaining nostril.

Snack.

”Can I please have peanuts?” he asked.

“After you pick up your toys in the living room, I’ll get you a little snack,” I assured him.

“Okay,” he said, bouncing off to find homes for his DUPLO blocks and books.

A surprisingly short time later, he flounced into the kitchen. “I’m ready for my peanuts,” he announced.

“Did you pick up your toys?” I asked

He nodded vigorously.

I began walking toward the living room. “Buddy,” I said, eyes sweeping over the carnage,”you are definitely not done picking up.”

”Daddy!” he cried, catching up to me.” I didn’t want you to look! I didn’t want you to check on my toys!”

George Washington Carver.

“Daddy!” he shrieked happily. “Can I please have a snack? I really need a snack.”

“I’m guessing,” I said, “that you have a strong opinion on a snack?”

“Uh huh,” he exclaimed. “I need peanuts. I really need peanuts!”

“I’ll cut an apple,” I said. “We’ll do apple slices this afternoon.”

“Good idea,” he said. “We’ll do both. I’ll have apple slices and peanuts. I just want 300 pieces of peanuts. Shall we get them?”

“You,” I said, “are something.”

He is.

I cannot even say.

I cannot even say how much I loathe people saying things - especially when it’s delivered as some great piece of advice - some variation of “…just wait until he/she is ____ years old…just wait, you won’t know what’s coming!”

I cannot even say. But I’m trying here.

Gotta boogie (part 2).

“Buddy,” I said. “It is super hard for me to brush your teeth when you’re simultaneously picking your nose.”

“Daddy,” he said, with toothbrush in mouth and multiple digits exploring nasal cavity, “I’m just getting a boogie out.”

“You have a point there,” I sighed.

This.

I loved two. I love three. And I’ll love four.

There is no part, no age, no stage, no piece of our children’s lives I am dreading or afraid of. I have uncertainty and doubt and concerns about how we can best support and help them at different stages, through life’s challenges. But I do not dread a moment. Not a moment of their lives.

Not one.

____

Truly, do this: surround yourself with interesting people. Do it.

I do.